


The Unhappy Animal

by vogue91



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Gen, Imprisonment, Introspection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-03
Updated: 2018-01-03
Packaged: 2019-02-27 18:15:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13253877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vogue91/pseuds/vogue91
Summary: I look at the animal, in all his majesty, and I hate myself for the fate we’re both destined to.Pariahs, rejects, prisoners.For faults we don’t have, for other people’s sins, because they look at us and they just see untameable beasts, right Beak?





	The Unhappy Animal

It’s raining.

Drop, after drop, after drop.

There have been the time when I liked rain. I sat under the arches of Hogwarts’ yard, and from time to time I held out my hand, amusing myself looking at the imaginary paths that those thin rivulets of water created on my fingers.

Then the rain stopped carrying with itself any kind of poetry, becoming just something to run from, during the endless days in Azkaban. Toward the end, I didn’t even bother to move, I stayed still under that single infiltration of water, letting it wet me, penetrating me to the bones, hurting me.

And I never thought I could’ve gone deeper, I could’ve felt worse.

Until now.

I’m in Buckbeak’s room, leant against him, relishing his warmth.

And I look outside the window, I watch the drops of water making a deafening sound against the glass and I know I can’t touch them.

I almost feel a sort of nostalgia for the moist they brought inside of me, which made me heave, still, filthy, but that still gave me the feeling of being alive.

I look at the animal, in all his majesty, and I hate myself for the fate we’re both destined to.

Pariahs, rejects, prisoners.

For faults we don’t have, for other people’s sins, because they look at us and they just see untameable beasts, right Beak?

And yet, your eyes are still spry. Much more than mine, actually.

And I wonder why you’re able to stand your cage better than I do; why man, so wrongly considered sentient, could be so much more intolerant than an animal.

I look at the depth of your greyish eyes, a colour so similar to mine and to the sky of this rainy London, and I can almost get the answer.

You know, Beak, at times I fear animals regard man as a creature of their own kind, which has in a highly dangerous fashion lost its healthy animal reason; as the mad animal, the laughing animal, as the weeping animal.

As the unhappy animal.

Whilst you... no, you know the meaning of waiting and accept it way better than we could.

My race’s arrogance killed freedom and innocence in yours, and our being here is the most concrete proof.

We’re both animals, after all, so where lies the difference between us when we both look at the sky, we both dream of the day when we’ll be able to breath with open lungs uncorrupted air, without the dust from memories prevailing on this much, much bitter life?

You grant, as if you read the path taken by my thoughts, as if you wanted to divert me from it. Loyal and brotherly, as those friends belonging to a distant past.

I feel a weird shame now finding myself next to you and treating you as a victim of my very same executioner.

After all, I’m the mad animal, suffocated by the madness of reclusion.

The laughing animal, out of sarcasm or to convince myself that there’s still room for happiness among these walls.

The weeping animal, or the one who’s incapable of doing it, no matter how much he desires it.

The unhappy animal, in a cage, who’s been denied the luxury of freedom.

And you bear this all with me, but most of all you bear me, without a hint of yielding.

You sleep, eat, look around, keep me company.

Without your eyes ever matching the level of sadness in mine.

Just, from time to time, I think I see in a glimpse your look wandering to that window, showing a world we should’ve forgotten.

You look at the sky, at his iridescent nuances. The sky, that homeland that has been stolen to you.

Flying can be wonderful, Beak.

But our wings were clipped.  


End file.
